


behind this closed door

by theviolonist



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything they never said, it's there, behind this closed door, waiting to explode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. break your little heart

**  
** _“The best birthday present I got was born 10 minutes before I was.”_  
Bill Kaulitz -   
  
_Hide._  
  
Had they never guessed, Tom sometimes thought, by the way he clung to his microphone? Just by taking a look into his always-tired, black-circled eyes, did they not see all he was concealing from them? Did they not see the weight of this secret? It seemed to be more unbearable every day, and every day he seemed to reach his breaking point, as if he could not take it anymore and was going to break down and say it, no, yell it, to the world, to their faces.  
  
Tom remembered when they were young, when Bill still had his spiked hair simple and waved his arms frantically as if to convince everyone that they weren't just some side band but  _real music_ , as he liked saying.  
  
At that time, while he and the Gs merely followed the wave of success that had suddenly dawned upon them, he remembered how Bill was exultant, ecstatic, and kept saying that he knew this day would come, that they should do this or that. And everyone followed him blindly, for they had nothing else to do anyway.  
  
Bill was this energy, this unstoppable wave, this always-burning flame showing them the way, day after day. He was what held them together, what brought them close, what made them who they were, only stronger, brighter, clearer. Even when he was uncertain, when he doubted (and he did), when he was distant or mean, he was their guide. Their master. Their child. Their lover. He was everything to them. He would never die away.  
  
There was still a spark of this energy in him. When he was on stage it still occupied him completely. You could still not take your eyes off him as long as he was there. Of course, when he sang, the hard gleam in his eyes would still fascinate everyone and make them quiet and still, be it with approval or criticism. He still had – and Tom believed he always would have – this amazing presence that Tom knew was what had made them be this famous and still made them so. But then, Bill  _was_  this presence; this dramatic, overshadowing person you could not bear to live without once you had got to know him.  
  
And his voice. He still had his voice. Rugged, of course, and it had lost some of its former purity - Tom was always amazed when he watched their old, energetic, almost angry videos - but it was still  _Bill's_  voice. Barely describable, and not always really beautiful, but so strong, deep, sincere, and so heart-stakingly painful – it used to be hopeful – that it broke one's heart.  
  
Tom knew it, because he had always lived with this voice at his side, though he had never really come to terms with it so much where he could get used to it and describe its extraordinary power.  
  
He remembered when they were kids he would sometimes sit by his sickly-looking – because of his amazing pallor – thin, graceful brother and ask him with a tiny voice to sing him a song, or just to talk, to ask questions, to  _say_  something, just for the pleasure to hear this soothing, angelic voice and to fall asleep with the sound of it.  
  
Bill had – he had always loved talking – and it often occurred that Simone or Jörg would find them embracing, or Tom's head on Bill's little shoulder, both of them sleeping or Bill still talking, sometimes nonsense, slowly, as if he didn’t want to awaken his sleeping protégée. At these moments, they had clung to each other, held hands – Tom knew their bond had always existed – and the adults would back away and feel they were not welcome on this boundaried world that was theirs, the children’s superior, enchanted world.  
  
But these days Bill was not himself, and Tom knew it was this secret that was eating at him from the inside and took away all of his energy – all of his  _being_.  
  
Bill would deny it; Bill would say: “No, don't worry, I'm fine.”  
  
And Tom would actually believe him – want to believe him – for a second.  
  
But that was before he saw the way he absent-mindedly rubbed his eyes, red from tears he now, Tom knew, had difficulty hiding under make-up. Then he would stand up, fists clenched, and it'd take all of Bill's seduction and persuasion to talk him out of doing something stupid but, hopefully, relieving for both of them. They then would stay lying on the bed for hours, mixed limbs and arms, and wouldn't talk about what they should or should not do, for they knew it was useless.  
  
Bill's slow but sure death showed in every detail of everyday life. The way he walked, less arrogant than before; heavy steps, almost painful. The way he talked, which was less enthusiastic, less eager to grab the microphone from the journalist and say his thing, which they all knew stood for all of them. The way his eyelids sometimes batted, as if he were ready to fall asleep then and there, or lie down and die, and Tom was sometimes so worried that he had to approach his brother and ask him if he was okay, to which he would hear: “Yes, I am fine, stop this.” Or: “Don't worry.”  
  
The way he now never showed as much energy on stage as he used to, and would simply raise his arms as if in a powerful, breath-taking, sad prayer no one – or nothing – ever responded to. And these were only a few of the million of things Tom noticed every day, and that made a lump grow in his chest, for he didn't know how to protect, shield or comfort his brother without being foolish or suicidal.  
  
 _Hide._  
  
Tom was watching this slow death - no, there was no other word to describe it - from afar, a shadow across his face, this face that was so similar to his own that it was almost disturbing. He could do nothing, and he knew it. Bill was lost in his own suffering, which he refused to share with anyone or anything, even  _him_ , he who had always been there in his shadow, silent and full of kindness and love.  
  
Tom was aware – while Bill clearly wasn't – that his brother didn't  _want_  to share his burden. He had absorbed the situation and the pain that came with it to such a point that it had become a part of him, a part of the character he exposed every day to the indiscrete and judgemental eyes of the media. They said that a dark aura floated around him, a powerful and cruel halo that could overwhelm one's heart, and though Tom knew part of it was pure journalistic fabrication, he also knew part of it was true.  
  
All he said in his songs was the truth, or so he believed. The loneliness, the rain, the sun, the escapes, the love; it was all there. And the changing. The difficult, unstoppable changing that seized them.  
  
Sometimes, when Bill was out, doing something Tom didn't want to join him in – it rarely happened, but it did – Tom again watched their videos from their earlier years. ‘Durch Den Monsun’. He was aware that it was somehow masochistic, but he was incapable of restraining himself from doing it.  
  
He silently watched his twelve-year-old brother, a kid, sing with an absolute conviction that they were to stick together during every problem, every crisis, every war – and if they were separated, that they were to be reunited, eventually.  
  
And Tom knew it was for him. He knew that Bill had believed what he was singing, at the time, and believed that their bond would survive the fame. It had. And that they would know how to make it through this intense and somehow fateful golden rain.  
  
Now he wasn't so sure, and neither was Tom. They were kids then. They didn’t think more than a few years ahead into the future. But now, rendered to the point that their music, even if it was criticized and sometimes even loathed, was a turning point in the musical universe of the twenty-first century, they felt trapped. He felt trapped. The Gs felt trapped. Bill felt trapped. They  _were_  trapped.  
  
But there was nothing to do about it, so they continued to tour endlessly, suffer the interviews, have fun, play music from their black, swollen hearts, sleep in hotels, never be at home nor alone. They had no choice but to go on doing it. And if it weren't for this secret there were trying to hide from the entire world – and to them it felt like some kind of gigantic fraud – they would like it.  
  
Of course, it wasn't always easy. Of course they had arguments, and sometimes they were tired of all those people that for some unknown reason seemed to entertain nothing but pure hatred for them. Of course. But they liked the core of it, they liked it, they did. It was music. It was their life.  
  
And that was also something Tom remembered when watching those videos. Watching the long, black-varnished hand Bill used to remove the microphone from his or Georg's hand – as if he were afraid they were going to say something inappropriate. Watching him talk so passionately to the journalist, about who they were and were not, and why this name, and laugh to a joke only the four of them knew about. He watched the journalist look somehow hurt by their pure, childlike laughter after Bill had said their single was named ‘It's my life’ when it was obviously not. How much fun that had been. The journalist hadn’t known. And as they had all laughed at their childish joke, he had waited for them to tell him what the real name was.  
  
 _Hide._  
  
It had to stop. One way or another, it was imperative that they stopped this hide-and-seek game – war – with the world, because Tom knew they were not going to win. Maybe Bill thought they would be able to keep their shameful secret from the inquisitive eyes everyone directed at them, but Tom knew he was being delusional. And he understood, because how could one not be delusional when he bore as much as Bill did?  
  
It had to stop. If Bill couldn't do it, well, Tom would. He just could not stand seeing his brother – his  _twin_ , for Christ's sake – literally fall before his eyes. Sometimes he wondered if Bill was even conscious of what was happening. Did he know how miserable he looked ? Or did he think that … what did he think?  
  
Tom sometimes thought of the situation as a double-edged knife. Bill did this to preserve their relationship, but what he did was kill it. It was killing them. He had to put a stop to it, as painful as it may be.  
  
But for the time being, he couldn't resolve to do it, and he stayed in bed for entire afternoons, blankly staring at his laptop, which was replaying their old clips and songs again and again, and thinking about his brother's beautiful eyes sending at him one of his long, cold, expressionless, hurt glares.  
  
Sometimes he would cry. Other times he would just hide his head in a pillow and yell as if he was being murdered – for that was how he knew their separation was going to feel.   
  
\------------------------   
  
He had never been so beautiful. Was it a trick of fate played to him? But then, Tom thought, he was always beautiful. It was not really surprising he looked beautiful now. And maybe this sensation was made more and more hurtful by the fact that Tom knew he would maybe never see him this unguarded again.  
  
Bill was spread across the bed, his head resting on Tom's stomach, one of his legs hanging freely from the bed. He seemed natural and happy – if it weren’t for the rings under his eyes – and quiet, as if he knew nothing could harm him when he was here, and it hurt Tom. Because he was going to prove to him that it wasn't true, and he didn't want to. But it was necessary. Maybe Bill would never dare again look this pure, this  _safe_.  
  
Tom's wandering gaze came back to Bill's relaxed form. His hair, freed from all its glosses and gels, felt like a dark, ebony river on Tom's chest. In the room lingered a faint scent of sex. Tom tentatively extended a hand to touch Bill's flawless face, feeling somehow guilty for seeking relief and comfort before what he was about to do.  
  
But Bill accepted the caress gratefully. Maybe he was even surprised by Tom's shyness. And soon he yearned for more. He forced Tom to bend his head and pushed him into a long breath-taking kiss.  
  
How could this be  _wrong_? It couldn't be. It wasn't. Tom knew it, and the kiss reinforced this conviction, because honestly, how could something wrong feel so perfectly right? It was simple. This was where Tom belonged. Bill was where he belonged, whom he belonged to, whatever. More than his family. Bill was this complex, sometimes spiteful, sometimes charming human being, from whom Tom had always sought tenderness and, later, passion.  
  
The contact with Bill's skin startled him from his retrospective thoughts. How could this skin be so soft? he wondered. Though this time, his conscience was like a softened, unclear voice he vaguely heard, already entwined in the throes of pleasure and pain.  
  
They made love. They made love once, twice, so many times Tom couldn't even count. It was difficult, and sometimes he felt tears rolling down his cheeks, but they couldn't stop. He knew Bill's ass would be sore in the morning, and maybe he wouldn't even be able to walk, but who cared? It was the goddamn last time. Tom's mind couldn't even register it.  _The last time_. It just seemed so … remote, so unreal. How could it be the last time?  
  
Sometimes, during their embraces, Tom would be forced to stop just so that he could hold his brother, close, close, too close, so tight that both of them felt as if their bones were crushing – as if they were finally becoming one. But never look into his eyes.  
  
He would jerk from the pleasure suddenly, and take a look around him. Bill, panting under him, naked, giving. The door, carefully locked – only they had the key; the others believed they were shopping. The curtains, closed. The lamp, from which a sweet orange light escaped and embraced the shapes of Bill's body.  
  
It was so sweet, this light … everything looked smooth under its spell, easy, within reach. Nothing could ever be taken away in this light. They were no boundaries. Nothing was forbidden. ‘Sin’ wasn't even a word in this world. You could hug your twin brother and slide your hand on the small of his back and kiss him, it wasn't a problem. If only.  
  
Try to forget. Forget the light. The guilt. Enjoy this last time. And that's how Tom decided that his last time with Bill wouldn't involve pain. They both deserved this shoot of raw pleasure before the end – their end. He stole a last glance at Bill's slender frame.   
  
_Bouncing inside me  
Stealing my breath  
Crushing my bones  
Til I'm left out of breath  
Licking every droplet of wine  
On my tired limbs.  
Making love to me, hoping it'll scare me away  
Being  
Trembling  
Between my legs and in my arms, crying, darling  
Stealing my sleep_   
  
“Bill …” he murmured, feeling a sudden nostalgia invade him.  
  
Bill sent him a heated wink and purred in his ear, his lazy, husky voice making Tom's toes curl on the mattress. “Ssh … let's talk later, OK?”  
  
Tom guilty was still Tom. He nodded, and by seconds, he had forgotten what he'd wanted to say.  
  
The night was as good as a last night with Bill Kaulitz could be.   
  
\------------------------   
  
Dawn pierced through the curtains and Tom knew that, in seconds, they were going to have to separate. And he didn't want to. Not until he'd talked it over with Bill. He somehow felt that if he didn't break it off now, he never would. And he had to. He knew he had to.  
  
Bill was sleeping, snoring lightly, his hair tousled and messy. He looks f***ing adorable, Tom thought. When he slept, Bill gave up the haughty look, stopped sneering, snarling, criticizing everything. He stopped being sassy, or seductive, he just … he just looked calm, if not a little dumb. Human, in short. Serene. Tom felt guilty to have to wake him for what he was going to say.  
  
He shook his brother's shoulder lightly. “Bill … wake up, baby,” he said.  
  
Bill's eyes shot open and within seconds he was sitting on the bed, his arms wrapped protectively around his chest as if to protect his nudity. “What? What's going on? Is it time yet? Has someone found us? Have they called? Oh my God, Oh my God ...”  
  
He started looking frantically for his phone.  
  
Tom couldn't help but smile sadly at his cuteness. “Bill, relax, it's nothing. Everything's okay,” he whispered as he leant in to kiss him.  
  
They exchanged a sated, open-mouthed kiss and stayed there for a few minutes, doing nothing but breathe in the quietness of the atmosphere.  
  
“Sorry to have worried you,” Tom whispered.  
  
“Nah, don't be sorry,” Bill whispered back, his voice sleepy. “We have to get up anyways,” he added, rubbing his eyes. He was going to stand up but Tom grabbed his elbow. “What is it?”  
  
Tom closed his eyes briefly. He didn't want to do this … “Bill,” he said. “We have to talk.”   
  
\------------------------   
  
Bill looked a bit taken-aback by Tom's declaration but he obliged. He sat back down, frowning lightly. “OK ... What time is it?”  
  
“5.”  
  
Bill's frown grew deeper. “You're waking me up at five to  _talk_? Are you crazy or what? We'll have plenty of time at seven. Now let me have my beauty sleep,” he pouted.  
  
Tom smiled but didn't change his mind. Now or never. “We need to talk now.”  
  
“Do we?” Bill shot back, one eyebrow quirked.  
  
Tom nodded solemnly. God … this was gonna be hard, wasn't it? He didn't even know where to start. Where do you start telling your twin brother you're breaking up with him? What kind of fucked-up situation was that, anyways?  
  
He took a deep breath. Well. “Bill, I know it's been hard for you.”  
  
“It has,” Bill answered, his voice wary, as if he sensed what was going on.  
  
He looked so much like a hurt animal right now, Tom thought. So vulnerable … his arms embracing his knees, on defense, ready to jump off the bed when only a few minutes ago his head had been resting lazily on his twin's shoulder.  
  
Tom winced at the sight. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to lean in to give his brother a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth, as they used to, pull him in an embrace and lull him to sleep. “Everything is gonna be okay,” he would say. But no. If he said that, he'd be lying. Again.  
  
Why was it he had to do such a thing? He once again wondered.  
  
“And I know you think we can hide it forever, but we can't. It's been hard for me too.”  
  
“I know,” Bill sighed.  
  
Tom was surprised that he actually seemed to understand. Maybe this was going to be simpler than what he'd expected.  
  
But Bill continued. “Do you think we should … give up Tokio Hotel?”  
  
Tom may have been expecting things, but not  _this_. “What?” Was he serious?  
  
He couldn't be. Tokio Hotel was his life, everything he'd longed for – craved for – ever since he was a kid. And now that he'd achieved it... he wanted to give it up? Tom's heart faltered. Maybe... but no. If he did that... doing that would be forcing Bill to give up his dream for him. It was not just music. Of course, Bill loved music, but he could do that if it was just the two of them in their garden, or on a beach in the Bahamas, couldn’t he?  
  
No, it was deeper than that. He loved everything. Not just the music, but also the fame, the glitter, the shades, the fashion shows... He loved seeing himself in the papers, being someone, being recognized, finally, after having been ignored, criticized, ostracized for so long. Tom just couldn't take that away from him. It was not a solution. It would never be a solution to break his brother just so that they could live their love in peace.  
  
“You have another solution?” Bill asked tiredly, startling him from his sad reverie. In his eyes, Tom saw hope. Hope that he, Tom, would've found the right solution for them to be together. And what was he doing?  
  
Tom hesitated. Bill was ready to give up music to be with him, just the two of them, happy … Music. The only thing he loved as much as he loved Tom, he was ready to give up. How big of a sacrifice was that? He was going to suffer. The certainty of it hit him. He was going to suffer like hell, cry, want to die. They were. Both of them. Was Bill's happiness, someday, worth all of this pain? Was it really going to do them good? Yes, he decided. Yes, it was. They wouldn't have to hide anymore. Hell, there were going to be a few tears, but what was that compared to a  _normal_  life?  
  
“Yes,” he answered, his voice determined. “I do. I think we should stop.”  
  
Bill's eyebrows shot up. “Stop what? You just said you don't want to stop music.”  
  
“I think we should stop being together.” It was a miracle he had so much as said it. As soon as he had, though, he realized it'd come out wrong. Stop being together? Right. As if. “I mean ...”  
  
“I know what you mean.” Bill answered quietly. “No.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“No. I disagree.”  
  
“Bill ...”  
  
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.  
  
I just want you to be happy. “It's not right. What we’re doing. You see how it’s destroying us,” he whispered. God, he said to himself, if you're going to do it, at least try to be convincing …  
  
“I don't believe you.”  
  
No wonder. “It's true.”  
  
“We've been together for ten years … and just now it’s dawned upon you that it's not right? I don't believe you. What kind of revelation is that? Is something happening? Are you being blackmailed? I can help you. You know you can tell me everything, Tom. Look at me.” He cupped Tom's face in his long, pianist-like hands.  
  
Tom refrained from the urge to rub his face against Bill's palms. He'd always loved his hands. His hands, and his lips, his …  
  
Bill's gentle voice startled him out of his reverie, once again. “I'm your brother who loves you. You can trust me.” He seemed to suddenly realize something he hadn't thought of, and quickly withdrew his hands. “Are you … attracted to someone else?”  
  
Tom's eyes widened. What the fuck? But as soon as he thought that, another thought surfaced in his mind: Here it is. Here it was, his chance. He just had to say yes and everything was broken. If he said yes, Bill would leave him alone. Tom knew it. His brother's ego could only take that much.  
  
But no. No, he couldn't do that. He'd just have to find another way. He couldn't crush Bill's confidence. He knew he'd always used his appearance as an shelter and an armor against the world's cruelty. He was confident, he knew he was beautiful, and he used it. Sometimes it was almost ridiculous. Sometimes the way his hip stuck out was just too much and his pursed lips felt fake.  
  
But Tom knew that if you took the body, the manicured nails, the pretty attires away from Bill, he was nothing. He didn't believe in himself anymore.  
  
“No ...”  
  
A wave of relief flooded over Bill's traits. But before he could say anything else, Tom added. “But I'm not attracted to you anymore.”  
  
Sorry, he thought in his mind. I'm so sorry.  
  
“I'm sorry.” His words felt uneasy, clinical. The mere idea of what he was saying – this  _lie_  – was nauseating.  
  
He held back the urge to close his eyes at the sight of Bill's face falling before him.   
  
\------------------------   
  
The awkward silence hung in the room for a few more minutes. Then Bill stood up as if he couldn't stand to stay one more minute in his brother's presence. “Yes, well, uh … okay. I'm-uh … I'm gonna go now, if you don't-,” he stuttered.  
  
“Wait, Bill!” Tom grabbed Bill's forearm and Bill turned around to face him, one hand still on the doorknob.  
  
“You know what, Tom? Just shut up, okay. Just … just shut up. I'm okay, I'm fine, just … I need some time alone right now. So shut up and let me go before I fucking punch you.”  
  
Tom let go of Bill's forearm.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
They now stood face to face, both breathing heavily. Bill, despite his previous speech, didn't seem to be leaving. “I'm going to go.”  
  
Tom didn't answer. He couldn't. He just couldn't. Bill started moving towards the door, but just before he opened it, he turned around and said, “You know what, Tom? I'm trying to process what you're saying, but I just can't. We've been together for ten fucking years, and then one day you wake up and you're just not attracted to me anymore? I say it's bullshit. But I'm not going to try to make it okay. Because if you have a problem, and that's how you choose to tell me to mind my business, which, by the way, is your business too, well, I've got nothing more to say. I can't believe you're doing this to me. It's despicable, and it's lame, and it's just fucked-up. So fuck you.”  
  
But he didn't move. He didn't leave. He just stood there, cheeks flushed, tears gleaming in his earth-coloured eyes, hands on hips, one lip trembling like it did when he was a little kid.  
  
Tom could only bear that much. He sighed deeply and gave up. Fucker, he said to himself, already angry for screwing this up.  
  
Then he grabbed Bill's collar and brought him close to give him the most burning, passion-filled, breathtaking kiss they'd ever shared.   
  
\------------------------   
  
“Well, isn't that mixed signals,” Bill said ironically, a cigarette hanging from his somewhat wobbly fingers.  
  
Tom hated it when Bill resorted to irony. It always ended up with one of them getting hurt.  
  
They were perfectly ridiculous. The thought popped up in his mind incongruously. If someone were to see them right now, he'd be dead on the floor laughing. What was this fucked up logic of theirs? First they were arguing. Then they were kissing as if there were no tomorrow. Then they were sitting on the bed like two damn morons, cross-armed and cross-legged, not facing each other. Come. On.  
  
“You're not helping, Bill.”  
  
“I wasn't intending to.”  
  
“Gee, very mature of you, thanks.”  
  
“Oh, what, so now you want  _me_  to help you break up with  _me_? You see, here  _I_  think you need a brain check,  _dude_ , cause that's pretty fucked up.”  
  
Great. Irony, irony and … more irony. There were just going to go far with this. Tom started running his hand through his dreads. “Look, Bill, I … I'm really sorry, we just can't be together, okay? It's not …” His voice trailed off.  
  
“It's not?”  
  
“It's not normal. It's not right. Fuck, it's dangerous, and I can find a million reasons why it's better that we break up.”  
  
“You do not break up with your twin brother, you do realize that, right?” Bill said before starting to pick up the clothes on the floor.  
  
Tom didn't even bother answering. He was just so fed up. I mean, he was trying to do the right thing for once, and this was all he got? Sarcasm? Well, fuck Bill. He was trying to do something that was good for everyone, and the only thing he got out of it was a broken heart. Why was Bill always making everything so fucking difficult? An irrational anger invaded his chest.  
  
“It's over,” he said in his hardest, most impersonal, most definitive voice. But wasn't it shaky in the end?  
  
Bill was showing him his back, but Tom clearly saw him stop his movements, startled. But he didn't say anything, then carried on folding Tom's clothes that had fallen on the floor the night before.  
  
“I said : it's o-”  
  
“I heard you,” came Bill's icy voice.  
  
“Do you understand what it means?”  
  
“It means nothing. You're saying that now, and in two hours you'll be at my feet begging for a blowjob before the interview.”  
  
Bill's crude remark only helped Tom's determination. “No, I won't. Look, Bill, I don't want to hurt you…” (but he did) “…but I came to my senses, and you’d better do the same. What we've been doing isn't  _right_. It's  _disgusting_. We should find ourselves boyfriends – or girlfriends, for all I care - and forget all about it.”  
  
He hadn't intended to say that. Never. He just thought he'd say that it was better for them, and that they would be discovered one day, unmistakably. That they should stop before … Maybe he would've put in the 'it's wrong'-argument, but not this harshly. All of this was going so badly. So badly. He just wanted to protect Bill, why wouldn't he listen? Why was he making this so difficult? Why was he making him say all these horrible things?  
  
“Okay,” Bill finally said after a while. The word was exactly Bill, Bill when he was afraid or destroyed; icy, definitive. Tom felt like running to his brother and pressing a tender kiss against his forehead, as he'd always done when they were kids and someone had picked on Bill.  
  
He did not say more and they stayed like that for a while, Bill with his back to Tom and Tom watching him, pupils dilated. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. It wasn't his cue to cry. He didn't deserve the tears. He should've left, but he couldn't either. He couldn't do anything. He'd wanted it, and here it was: they were breaking up.  
  
Finally. After all these years, these venomous, poison-filled years. After all these tender, shaky minutes, these blessed seconds, it was all over. How strange. But now wasn't the time to ask himself if he'd made a mistake, was it?  
  
He felt Bill's shoulders tensing up and immediately knew that there was going to be another rage outburst if he didn't leave. He was trespassing, after all. This time was no longer  _their_  time, and the room was Bill's room. Tom was the one that had drawn this barrier between them, forcefully, violently.  
  
And he could smell it. Hear it. Feel it. The blood. It screamed in his veins, it yelled to him to come and get him back, it set his body on fire. He saw it on Bill's temple, furiously beating. He felt it in the tears Bill would spill as soon as he would leave – he just knew. His own eyes seemed to get lost in this red daze.  
  
He left. When Bill turned around, face shut, his eyes on fire, he just held his hands in peace and slowly retreated out of the room.  
  
He could not run fast enough not to hear Bill's forceful, chocked sobs. A lump rose in his throat, and he rushed to the washroom to vomit.   
  
\------------------------   
  
There was a lot of crying this night, but none of the G's asked. Some other people did, but they never got an answer from either of the twins.   
  
\------------------------   
  
Everything was awkward. The little ordinary things: arm-touching, embraces and such, suddenly felt out of place. And when they didn't, one of the twins would brush them off, afraid of what it may – or may not – have meant. It was so hard …  
  
Sometimes Tom would wonder why. Why he had done this to them – obviously Bill wasn't feeling any better. Why he was inflicting this on their … couple? Was that what they were? Used to be? Was it what they had been all this time?  
  
Or was it too sweet a word to call a pair of incestuous brothers – twins, to add to the sin?  
  
Egoistically, the G’s seemed happy with the new situation. Or, Tom wondered, maybe they themselves were the ones who had been egoistical by spreading the details of their unnatural, undeniably wrong, sick romance among their best friends? Of course, Gustav, being Gustav, stayed quiet about it and did his best to comfort Bill – and God knew it could be hard. But you could see a new gleam in his eyes, for he had been freed of this secret that had been burdening him for too long.  
  
Georg, on the other hand, was ecstatic. Tom didn't really resent him for that. He knew how hard it had been for him, straight-minded, down-to-earth Georg, to live with the fact that they loved each other – and still did. Even if they had tried to restrain their passion, there was always something escaping.  
  
An outsider might have taken it strictly as brotherly love, but Georg knew better. There were displays of love. Eskimo kisses, long burning stares, playful glances, embraces, hugs, tickling, grinding… There were so many of them. So many.  
  
Tom hadn't realized how close they had been; not only as twins, but as lovers. Ordinary lovers weren't that close. But then, they weren't ordinary lovers. Bill was always proud to say it. At that thought, something died in Tom's chest.  
  
He hadn't realized. That was, until he'd found himself deprived of this closeness, of Bill's quiet, feline presence by his side at every hour of every day. He missed it. He missed it terribly. He missed these little things. The intoxicating scent of Bill's skin. His diva whining. And the sex, too.  
  
He missed his brother. His twin. His lover. He missed Bill, from whom he felt he had been separated. But the worst thing in all this was that he, Tom Kaulitz, was the only one to blame for it.  
  
A typical morning on the tour bus. Well … almost typical, that was. A well-trained eye would have noticed the strange way Georg was acting. He almost sauntered, although sitting around his shit-faced, depressed friends, he obviously had no reason to. He had the right to be happy, reflected Tom (as he refrained from the urge to hit him). Even if it was at his best friends' expense. It was natural, unlike their relationship.  
  
A heavy silence hung in the room. It was only broken at times by the sound of Georg's whistling. It had been like that for a few days already. Everyone walked as though the atmosphere were made of a thick jelly.  
  
Bill violently dropped his bowl in the sink. It produced a loud metallic sound that startled the crew.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled. As he did, he sent a glare to his brother for no apparent reason.  
  
Tom sighed. Bill was like that, these days. It was understandable, though. He was jumpy, easily irritated, aggressive, always assaulting everyone for non-existent reasons. Only yesterday, he'd had a bitch fit about his lip gloss (his lip gloss!) that Gustav had supposedly stolen. If that wasn't a sign he wasn't all right, Tom didn't know what was. Love, he thought angrily. Such bullshit. The thought unnerved him, but what did even more was the fact that he knew all too well it wasn't true.  
  
Feeling somehow compelled to do it, he suddenly sprung from his chair to run after his twin whose diva-like silhouette was quickly going away. He didn't see Gustav and Georg exchange an exhausted, slightly terrified look behind his back.  
  
“Bill!”  
  
Bill didn't turn to face him like he always did. Instead, his pace quickened as he tried to reach his room before his brother caught up to him. He crossed the bus like a tornado. But Tom was determined. His mind was set: he was going to make things clear. He was the older brother, after all. Some advantages (such as the authority over his twin) had to come with the package, right ?  
  
He grabbed Bill's arm to stop him from running away. Running away from him … how had they got to this? Was it really his fault? He twisted it lightly, not too hard, just so Bill would face him properly.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Tom was taken aback by his hard, impersonal voice.  
  
“What do you want?” Bill snapped. He clearly sounded exasperated.  
  
“I just want to talk.” Tom hated himself at that moment. He sounded just like the typical whiny, messy girlfriend clinging to her ‘true love’ that had rejected her. Even his words sounded like a fucking desperate plea, goddamnit.  
  
Bill's gaze was empty and cold. Blank. “It appears to me that we talked enough the other time, didn’t we,  _Tomi_?”  
  
Tom froze at all the irony and poison his twin didn't care to conceal. “Bill, I …”  
  
“You what?” Bill exploded. “You didn't want to hurt me? Don't give me that shit anymore, Tom, I've had enough. What was your point? ‘We're wrong.’” He imitated Tom in a cruel conscience-like high-pitched voice. “Wrong, my ass. It wasn't wrong when you were fucking me into the mattress, you bastard!”  
  
Tom exhaled sharply.  
  
“So what do you want? To apologize?” He let out a bitter laugh. “You wouldn't, would you? And even if you would, let me give you one tiny piece of advice: don't even try. I let you top a couple of times, doesn't mean I can't kick you in the balls. So from now on, don't approach me. Don't touch me. Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear you anymore, Tom. As you said so well yourself, we're OVER.” He emphasized his last word (he was still  _Bill Kaulitz_ , after all) and they stood face-to-face in silence for a few moments. Bill was panting and red-cheeked and Tom was awed, bewildered at the violence of his twin's outburst.  
  
However, he soon came back to his senses and tried talking some reason into him. “Bill, even if we're not … together anymore, does that mean we can't be brothers? Twins, even?”  
  
Again sounded the bitter laugh. “So you want to have your cake and eat it, huh? We were  _lovers_ , Tom. Do you even get it?”  
  
He did. He did get it. He was just trying to save as much as he could of his scattered relationship with his brother.  
  
“What do you expect ? That we could – how did you say –  _get back to normal_  and cuddle on the couch like … like what, Tom? When did we ever do that alone together without kissing? Can you even remember?”  
  
He couldn't.  
  
“You see? You can't. So stop feeding me your crap. I'm sick of it. I love you, Tom…”  
  
At these words, a shiver ran down Tom's spine.  
  
“…but right now, I just want to beat the shit out of you. You don't  _want_  me. You don't feel  _attracted to me_  anymore. I get it. We're over. So now don't try the nice-brother act on me.” His voice broke. “Just leave me alone.” He swiftly escaped Tom's grip and almost ran to his room.  
  
Tom could hear the sound of the lock being turned from the inside. He rushed to his own room. It hurt to discover that he didn't have the key anymore.  
  
Because there was nothing else he could do, he sat down and hoped things would get better, trying not to think that maybe this whole thing had been a mistake.


	2. pain management

**  
**_“I can't – we can't – live without each other. We're like one person and like soulmates.”_  
\- Bill Kaulitz

  
Things didn't get better.  
  
To the original awkwardness, even more awkwardness was added. Bill wouldn't talk to anyone and his musical energy and creativity were slowly dying before the eyes of his powerless friends. Since the 'episode', he'd shut himself down completely. Instead of being his usual diva-ish self, he was cold and took any occasion to scold everyone that crossed his ire's path.  
  
Tom was trying to respect his twin's manner of dealing with the break-up, and he tried to involve in as reduced a contact as he could. It was hard, though. He kept turning to make a remark to his brother, his face crunched up with anticipated laughter, only to find Bill's cruel absence. He was always surprised, too, when he watched a film in his hotel room, not to have Bill snuggling against him with a soft groan. In the morning, he yelled at the bathroom door to stop being such a  _girl_  and get the hell out here already, only to remember that Bill wasn't in there carefully applying his usual black eye shadow.  
  
He continued to hug the pillow when he woke up, to order room-service for two, to cut the crust off half of his toasts, like Bill liked it, to be careful to shut the cap of the bottle of shampoo because Bill couldn't stand it when it was open. Each time he realized his mistake and backtracked, red-faced, a stab of pain hitting him in the back. Of course, he’d think.  
  
He hadn't expected the separation to be so hard and so...  _complete_. It'd been naïve – he realized it now. Unconsciously, he'd expected for them not to be lovers anymore, but to keep some kind of a brotherly bond. Maybe it was because he couldn't imagine them apart. But it'd been stupid. How could he have thought, even if it was only for one moment, that Bill would actually  _understand_? He forced himself to stay semi-mad at Bill – otherwise the pain and guilt were just too much to bear. It was too much sometimes, though. Sometimes, seeing Bill pass by him without so much as casting him a glance made him want to grab his brother's arm and tell him that he was  _here_ , for God's sake, and wouldn't he just stop already. But he didn't.  
  
They were like total strangers. It didn't seem to bother Bill, but Tom knew that he was hurting. Some signs just didn't lie: the faint sobbing that he heard through his bedroom wall every night; Bill's almost imperceptible wince every time their arms brushed accidentally; his lackluster eyes; his own aborted reflex actions, like taking Tom's hand for comfort, opening his mouth to tease him, coming back to his room after dinner in the hotel's restaurant.  
  
A few months passed and Tom ended up believing that this nagging pain would never leave. Even after so much time, he still flinched every time Bill appeared in his line of sight and he still felt as if he'd been forcefully separated from his other half. Sometimes he wondered if maybe what he'd done was just basically wrong, maybe all this had just been a terrible mistake. In these moments, he was tempted to run to Bill, to kneel in front of him and beg him for forgiveness. He'd set up a routine to stop these 'crises' of irrational hope. He'd take a deep breath, sit in a chair and just sink his nails as deep as he could into the skin of his arm, sometimes deep enough to draw blood. He didn't care, though. Physical pain was a billion times better than this never-ending, sharp, shattering moral suffering.  
  
It turned out that he was wrong, once more. After no less than six months, six hell-like months, the pain began to slowly fade away. It wasn't as if it left completely. No, it just lowered from this feeling of constantly having his heart bare-handedly torn out of his chest to a dull, constant aching.  
  
Bill, however, didn't seem to have it as easy as him – if one could call it easy. He was always out partying, indulging in crazy games he'd never even  _thought_  of before. He drank a lot, and Tom suspected he was doing drugs, from the syringe marks he'd seen on his brother's arm. He was going down. And this time, Tom could do nothing about it.  
  
David had asked him to try and patch things up with Bill – obviously he'd understood they'd been fighting. Tom hadn't had the heart to tell him it was impossible, so he'd settled for nodding dully. Of course, David, I'll try and do what I can. You know Bill, David. Yes, I do.  
  
The 'twin automatisms' began to fade away, slowly and painfully, but they did. Tom started to awkwardly settle in his Bill-less life, although it wasn't easy and he kept bursting into hard, dry cries when he least expected it. He was coping. But even that was absurd, he thought when Bill eyed his heavy-shouldered silhouette with an angry glance, because he wasn't the one who was allowed to cope. He was the bad guy. Was he?  
  
The weeks passed, turned into months. It was one of those nights. The sky was low and ink-black, at least from Tom's hotel window. No stars were glowing and the whole town seemed to be dead, as all Tom could see and hear were a few timid lights and, once in a while, a faint, distant cry. He was leaning against the window, smoking.  
  
The twins had quit smoking when David had asked them to, so he could promote their organic-good-boys’ image. They'd stuck to it as long as they were together – Bill even pretended it 'helped him keep his teeth white' – but the resolution hadn't survived their break-up. He'd seen Bill feverishly drag on his Virginia Slim before their last concert in Berlin last night – they were staying in the town for a few days. David had caught him and had tried to lecture him, only to receive a cold sneer and a snarly remark.  
  
Weakly, Tom had also started smoking again. He found a slight relief in the sweet feeling of the fume in his mouth, in the mechanic dragging gesture, its regular and comforting rhythm, the white puffs in the air – clouds breathed out of his mouth. He did a lot of weak things, these days. He didn't particularly mind. It happened, you know? You couldn't have your heart broken and be all manly and glorious.  
  
Georg and Gustav had quickly picked up on what was going on, but their reaction had been moderated. They didn't want to be involved – and they were right. Gustav, though, being the good friend and naturally kind person he was, had tried a few approaches, especially with Bill. Needless to say, the experience had left him wide-eyed and not really predisposed to try a second time. Georg's prior euphoria concerning the twins’ separation had mostly disappeared, though he did seem particularly cheery most of the time.  
  
Tom and Gustav had talked. Not about the break-up, not about Bill or anything twin-related. They'd talked. Tom was grateful to Gustav for not having asked about Bill and their current situation. They'd had a good three-hour talk about everything that had crossed their minds, and Tom had come out of it ever so slightly cheered up.  
  
“Thanks,” he'd muttered to Gustav when leaving.  
  
Gustav had quirked an eyebrow. “For what?”  
  
But tonight Gustav wasn't here, and Tom was falling into a painful slumber, interspersed only with nightmares from which he woke up in a cold sweat. He wanted nothing but for the night to be over,  _finally_. He had enough of its depressing, profound colors – dark blue and velvety orange – for a lifetime, he was sure. At least. Maybe more.  
  
That was why he was stupidly thankful when a racket in the corridor made him jerk out of yet another god-awful dream in which Bill was sewing a red heart onto his bare chest, a malicious grin on his lips. It had hurt like hell. Half-awake, he unconsciously rubbed his chest whereon - of course - no heart was sewn.  
  
The racket didn't stop, though. Tom quickly switched from being thankful and amused to thoroughly irritated. Couldn't people be careful at night? Really, some people were trying to sleep. Well, yes,  _he_  wasn't, but that didn't mean others didn't, now, did it? It was really not his lucky day, Tom decided as the giggles and other sounds, sounds of kissing, came nearer. Why did people think everyone needed to hear them being all lovey-dovey and shit? Couldn't they do that in private, for fuck's sake?  
  
He waited patiently for almost a full five minutes, but the noises didn't go away. Tom decided that he'd waited long enough, and put on pajama pants. He'd tell them what he thought of their PDA.  
  
“Hey, some people are trying to be heartbroken, here!” he shouted into the corridor, before he spotted the couple. When he did, he wished he'd never come out of the room.  
  
Bill was standing at the other end of the corridor, a stranger's arm around his waist, and he was looking at Tom. He was looking at him with big, wide, sober, angry eyes. Well, angry wasn't quite the word. Furious was more like it.  
  
Tom took a step back, all but hoping that it'd prevent him from hearing the cruel remark Bill was no doubt preparing. Unsurprisingly, it didn't.  
  
“Really, now?” Bill sneered.  
  
Tom took another step back. “Look, Bill, I didn't mean it like that, I just -” he stuttered.  
  
“What did you mean, then?”  
  
Tom didn't say anything.  
  
Bill snorted. “Oh, I see. I see. You're the victim, aren't you? You -” He stopped as he seemed to remember the other guy's presence.  
  
He was looking at everything but at them. He wasn't even  _that_  good-looking, Tom thought.  
  
Bill's sharp intake of breath snapped him out of his reverie. “Whatever,” he concluded.  
  
Within seconds, Bill had taken the guy's hand and had planted a fierce, hard kiss on his lips, a kiss Tom knew by heart for having tasted it so many times. It usually came prior to raw love-making and following a fight. At other times, less often, it was just Bill searching for the oblivion he'd been denied for too long.  
  
Tom blinked as Bill moaned in the stranger's mouth and snatched the key from his hand. He fumbled to open the door as the stranger littered burning kisses in his neck, and Tom watched them in silence, flabbergasted. He felt like a voyeur. He wanted to open his mouth and yell at Bill to stop, stop, just stop doing that right now, stop, please. But he couldn't. He couldn't.  
  
Eventually, he did succeed in talking – well, yelling, more like. “Bill, stop, you can't -” The words left his mouth before he even realized he’d said them, and Bill turned to him to send him an ardent, fiery look.  
  
“Watch me.”  
  
They stumbled into the room, and all Tom was left with was a cold corridor, a closed door and a sour taste in his mouth. He didn't sleep much that night.  
  


\------------------------

The next morning, when he woke up, Tom was angry. He had the right to be, after all. He hadn't gotten any sleep because of Bill and his... bitch. It was raining, Bill had slept with a stranger in his very face and Tom'd cried himself to sleep because of him. It had to stop. Now.  
  
Which was why, without second thoughts (though they could have been useful at this point) he walked over to Bill's room, determined to let him know how rude and completely idiotic he was being, for God's sake.  
  
He knocked. No answer. He knocked again. By the ninth (okay, fourteenth, but he was  _really_  
angry) set of furious knocks, the door opened a crack and Bill's flustered face appeared in the gap, ready to scowl. He made a move to retreat as soon as he saw Tom, but Tom was prepared: he blocked the door with his foot.  
  
“Hi,” he said angrily.  
  
Bill didn't even answer, just glared at him. “What do you want?” he snapped.  
  
“Yes, I had a good night's sleep, thank you. Well, wait, actually, I  _didn't_. Because of you and your  _boyfriend's_ ,” he sneered the word, “racket.”  
  
Bill's reaction was unexpected to say the least, as he threw back his head to burst into dry, sarcastic laughter. “Seriously?” he choked.  
  
Tom didn't like the feeling – like he hadn't quite caught a joke which, what was more, had been made in his expense. “Seriously what?” he snapped.  
  
Bill pretended to wipe tears of laughter from his darker-than-dark eyes. He let out a humorless giggle. “You seriously think you can come to my room at nine in the morning and act all jealous-boyfriend on me?” he snarled.  
  
Tom had the good grace to blush. “I wasn't being jealous, I-”  
  
Bill snorted. “Please, Tom, cut the crap. I've known you for twenty-one years, remember? I know when you're being jealous. Let me just tell you one thing.” He gestured for Tom to come closer, and though Tom knew it was foolish, he took a step forward.  
  
“Fuck off,” was what Bill's hard voice carried to his ear. “You have no right to tell me what to do. I can fuck whoever I want, it's none of your damn fucking business, and if I'm screaming too  _loud_  for you, you just take your sorry ass to another room in this fucking three-hundred-room hotel. Got it?”  
  
Tom didn't have to answer, as the door was slammed to his face and, for the second time this morning, he was left staring at its polished smoothness, dumbfounded. He cursed. The door suddenly reopened, and Bill's hard, closed face reappeared.  
  
“I forgot,” he snarled. He thrust something into Tom's hand, and closed the door again.  
  
Tom didn't open his hand straight away, fearing that it may be what he thought it was. But curiosity got the better of him, and he eventually did open it, only for the painful truth to be revealed. In his hand, discarded, was Bill's necklace that Tom had given him for their nineteenth birthday: an elegant silver chain on which hung a simple silver band ring. It was the wedding they'd never have, the love they'd never voice publicly, a way to thumb their nose to the world that forbade their loving each other.  
  
And here it was, resting flatly in his hand, as if all these promises hadn't been anything more than words and kisses in the wind.  
  
Tom closed his hand and walked away, the silver burning in his fist-clenched hand.  
  
As soon as the sound of his steps faded away, Bill slid against the bedroom door and burst into choked, hurtful sobs.  
  


\------------------------

  
The next months passed in an uncomfortable haze. Everyone tiptoed around the twins, though no one really knew what was going on with them, except for Georg and Gustav, who were not going to say and couldn't do anything about it, at any rate.  
  
The rehearsals were awkward and the concert's quality was at its worst, though the audience couldn't really tell, being mostly thirteen-year-old girls. The critics had noticed, though, and were having a field day. As a result, the band was even more criticized than usual, which was a lot. David was downright desperate and showered them with endless lectures about harmony and 'being a group of friends, for God's sake, what is wrong with you guys?'.  
  
Tom behaved like a zombie and, though he took no pride in it whatsoever, he found it oddly relieving not to have to care about everyone else's problems. He had set up a simple routine: he got up, went to whatever events he was asked to attend, did whatever he was ordered to do, came back to the hotel, showered, ate, slept. The same thing, day after day, week after week.  
  
They were supposed to stay in Berlin to prepare for a new album, but the album in question drastically lacked any songs. Georg and Gustav had taken the opportunity to go see their families and friends, though, as David had decided that they would stay in Berlin for at least as long as was needed for the 'situation' to resolve. Boy, was he hopeful, Tom thought ironically. As if it could 'resolve'.  
  
Simone, having heard they were staying in Berlin for a while, called them to ask if it was possible for them to come home for a few days, but they answered that they didn't really have the time to come back home right then, as they were busy making the new album. Simone sounded disappointed, but she didn’t insist. Feeling somewhat guilty, they swore that they would make a visit during their stay in Germany, though they tried to postpone it as far as they could.  
  
They both didn't feel like going back to the home that had housed so many memories – happy ones – and having to explain to their mother that they were not really the best of friends anymore. It'd no doubt break her heart, and neither of them wanted that, as cruel as they may be to each other. It was best that they waited at least long enough to agree on a facade to show her, though they knew that she wouldn't fall for it.  
  
And so, by a strange twist of fate, they were left together in the hotel, trying as best as they could not to cross each other's paths, a task in which Bill was no doubt a master. Tom had noticed that he hadn't yet resumed seeing the stranger he'd caught him with, though he'd seen him with several other partners on occasions. He was being very discrete about it, though Tom suspected that it was not for Tom's emotional well-being, but to avoid any unwanted media attention.  
  
The stranger in question was a tall blond guy, who seemed like he wore leather jackets and shades most of the time. Tom couldn't help but linger on the fact that they were a much better fit than he and Bill had been, and a pang of jealousy hit him every time he thought about it. He was having more and more difficulty convincing himself that the decision he'd made was a good one.  
  
But it wasn't worth moping about, he said to himself as he tried to un-glue his eyes from Bill's slender silhouette, to which they were systematically attracted like a moth to a flame. It wasn't as if Bill would be ready to take him back, was it? Every time they'd talked since the break-up, Bill had seemed to be full of an always-burning rage, his eyes glaring daggers, his fists clenched. No, Tom had definitely managed to break them up, in all the ways possible.  
  
He had to hold back, though, when he saw Bill and his little 'boyfriends' sending each other burning glances and imagined them fucking in his head. He wanted nothing but to explode, let the flame of his jealousy burn high and clear... but he couldn't. So he kept to himself the biting words, the glares and the well-deserved punches. He kept it all to himself, hoping that one day he wouldn't tense up as soon as the pair entered his line of sight.  
  
Though he felt the pain was slowly easing away, the jealousy seemed to make it all come back at those times. It would always be there, hiding in a corner of his mind, unseen, only to come out and hit him when he least expected it. And then, when it did, it was real fireworks: he had to lie down as he felt the air being drawn out of his lungs, as if he'd been punched in the stomach, hard. He saw stars. Every feeling he'd kept carefully locked away would flare up with renewed strength.  
  
It would last only a handful of seconds before coming back to its original, dull aching. He never knew when or why it was coming. He would be in the band room, half-heartedly pinching his guitar strings, or absent-mindedly stuffing his mouth with anything edible, when it'd kick in and knock him out.  
  
After, it'd leave him lying, panting, tears rolling down his cheeks, wanting to do nothing but curl up and die. But he got up, time after time, walked to his room and tried to sleep and forget the noises coming from the room next to his. He knew that he should probably ask for another room and that staying here was nothing short of masochistic, but he couldn't resolve himself to do it.  
  
After a while, he took on boxing. It was neither original nor really liberating, but it did feel good to let off some steam once in a while. He took an odd pleasure in relentlessly hitting the punch bag, eyes fixated on his target. And so he would spend hours at the club, sweating profusely and trying to reach this blissful oblivion he craved for. Though he never reached it - and never would –, he would after some time go into a sort of comfortable haze from which he would only wake up when his hands started hurting.  
  
As time passed and the twins' relationship didn't improve one bit – Bill did do well in holding a grudge, after all – they went to see their mother separately. Each of them made up a few lies as to why the other couldn't come, and though it didn't please them to hurt their mother, they knew that seeing them being hostile and cruel to each other would be even harder on her. She quite obviously didn't believe their excuses, but she didn't pry.  
  
After they'd both been to see their mother a few times and Georg and Gustav had come back from their respective homes, David called them in to have a meeting.  
  
“Guys,” he started, a frown line striking his forehead. “It's been quite... um, hard, for all of us lately,” he continued.  
  
The four men nodded dully.  
  
“And obviously you're not being very productive on the new album,” he went on, his tone somewhat reproachful. “So I've decided that you should all go on a vacation.”  
  
His sentence clearly didn't receive the reaction he'd expected. While all previous announcements of this kind had been welcomed with cheers and laughter, this one received nothing but four flat 'Okay's.  
  
They decided that they would allow themselves a well-deserved holiday, after which they would come back to the studio and work seriously on the new album. David would manage everything media-related, and they were free to go where they wanted, it didn’t necessarily have to be together. It would also be good for them to search for the inspiration they'd clearly lost, what with them needing things like  _music_  and  _lyrics_.  
  
After David had given them his last farewell, and Bill had zoomed past him to his room, Tom slowly retreated back to his own room. I’ve always gone on holiday with Bill, was the first thought that hit him. He then wondered where he'd like to go to and wasn't surprised when nothing came up. He didn't want to go anywhere. He wanted to stay here and be left alone and die, for fuck's sake. And more than anything, he didn't want Bill to go away.  
  
But he didn't stop it from happening. He watched Bill packing from afar, didn't ask him where he was going, if he'd miss him, why he was leaving. He just stood there and let it happen, like the sad, lonely coward he was.  
  
He went to the airport, having learned from a kinder-than-ever Gustav at what hour the flight Bill was on was supposed to take off. He was surprised to learn that Bill was going to Japan, as he'd always had a preference for hot, sunny, white-sandy-beaches-kind of places. But Tom supposed it went with moving on: you  _changed_ , plain and simple. Maybe this Bill wasn't the Bill that liked lilies and stars anymore. Maybe he wasn't  _his_  Bill. Maybe he was just a Bill among other Bills, a Bill with tastes and quirks he was completely unaware of, who could take a plane and go to Japan for a reason he didn’t know. The thought frightened him. He pushed it away.  
  
He thought for a moment about going to see Bill and saying something, anything to him before he left, but he couldn't muster up the courage to reveal his presence to his estranged brother. And so he stayed, hidden behind a group of sun cream-smelling, flip-flop-wearing tourists, watching his twin brother get onto a plane that was taking him to the other side of the world without looking back.  
  
He cried.  
  


\------------------------

  
He finally decided to leave too, be it only for the sake of getting away from this country that held so many memories he did not want to dwell upon. He was tempted to choose the country at random – he'd been adventurous, once. But eventually he settled on a nine-hour long flight to the United States. He had a few things to do there anyway, and he had the money, so why not?  
  
He phoned a friend there, a fellow rapper-looking young man, very nice, that went by the name of Colin and that he'd met while on tour in the USA. He whole-heartedly agreed to have him over in his New York apartment. He did ask if Bill, Tom's ‘other half’, would be there, but did not comment when Tom answered with a dry 'No'. They settled on the week after Tom’s arrival, exchanged some news about each other's lives since they'd parted ways, said their thanks and hung up.  
  
Tom continued to live his dull, regulated existence until his departure day was there. He did not tell anyone he was leaving, but he did leave a message in Gustav's room for when he came back, telling him that he was safe and 'having fun' in America, if anyone asked. Gustav would understand – he always did. Tom felt a little guilty dragging him into his and his brother's romantic troubles, but he didn't have anyone else to tell this to who wouldn't ask him more details, and he couldn't possibly talk to Bill.  
  
He packed lightly. Unlike Bill, he'd never been a fan of trips, easily bored as he was with the endless flights and the never-ending waiting. Besides, he wasn't particularly fond of the stress every trip brought in – stress over the tickets, the departure and arrival times, the luggage, the security... He preferred staying at home, snuggled up with his brother on their familiar couch, or slumped into a hotel armchair, absent-mindedly grazing his guitar's strings and humming soft melodies, though he did indulge in his twin's craving for exoticism once in a while.  
  
That was what made them who they were, what made them so  _special_  and  _right_ : they complemented each other. Everything one of them lacked, was there in the other. Bill, with his tight outfits and passion for drama and epic love stories, was always full of creativity and ideas. He never ran out of projects. On the downside, his anger fits were terrible. He didn't have any patience and was easily stressed out, but he had a charisma that Tom had never encountered in any other human being. He was also extraordinarily strong-spirited, a leader at heart: he'd always been the one who not only had ideas and dreams but achieved them. He didn't believe in fate – what he wanted, he'd fight to get. He could bear incredible amounts of pain without wincing, and Tom admired him for it.  
  
On the other hand, Tom was more a calmer kind of person. He held in his heart a melancholy that was not lost on Bill and that he frequently used for the guitar passages in their songs. Contrary to Bill's adorable messiness, Tom was very organized and orderly, almost to the point of obsession. He always wanted everything to be in its place and to go according to his plans, though it rarely did. His charm was more of a boyish one. Where the audience craved for and was fascinated by Bill's mystery and provocative darkness, Tom's charm was easy, smooth. He was the 'cool' one, easy to talk to, engaging, spirited but not too much, sometimes quietly mocking, but never aggressive. He wasn't frightening as Bill could sometimes appear: he'd had no trouble making friends in high school, while Bill had always been some sort of social loner.  
  
Tom cared about people. He asked about them, made phone calls for Christmas and New Year's while Bill draped himself around his back, whispering in his ear about going back to sleep and doing that tomorrow. He’d always helped the elderly cross the road when back in his hometown, and he was always ready to give a hand with whatever physical task he was asked to help with. He always wanted to do good things, to be a good man.  
  
He was warm. Warm was a good word, and it defined him pretty well. Warm, easy, organized, flowing in golden waves like his dreadlocks on his shoulders – he had them black and short now, what with the new album and being an android and all, but he didn't like it.  
  
Bill wasn't like that. Bill was diva-like, and energetic, and buzzing with life and lust and everything else. He could be haughty on occasion, as well as cynic and bitter. He wasn't an easy person; he easily changed moods and never took the time to care about people the way Tom did. But they completed each other. Tom was there to provide Bill with the warmth he needed, and Bill sparked in Tom all sorts of wants and dreams.  
  
And as he was thinking that, as he reflected over the extraordinary way they fit so perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle, he wondered how he could possibly have let that go – scratch that: pushed it away. How he could have said to Bill that they were wrong, and had almost believed it for a moment. How could he have forgotten what made them who they were at their very core: each other.  
  
He felt like jumping on a plane and joining Bill in Japan, but he didn't. He cried for half an hour, resumed packing, boarded. The flight was long and boring, with bad airline food and the usual feel-good movies, and Tom suffered from a terrible backache when he exited the plane after nine hellish hours. He greeted his friend, thanked him, got in the car. As soon as he got to his room, he didn't even bother unpacking, but fell on the bed and slept for ten hours straight.  
  
When he woke up at 3 in the afternoon, the apartment was empty. He found a note from Colin in the kitchen, saying that he was at work and would come back at about five in the afternoon, that there were pancakes in the fridge, and would Tom be okay left at his own devices? Tom smiled at the scribbled note and heated up the pancakes. They were good.  
  
He thought about staying in the apartment, but bright rays of sunlight were flooding through the windows of the living room and it felt criminal no to go outside in such great weather. He decided to go for a walk, nothing too straining but not too depressing either. Perfect.  
  
And so he walked into town, ignoring the 'opportunities' he was offered, the exhibitionists and the freaks telling him that he was nothing but a hobo, anyway. He walked without really knowing where he was going and not really caring, sometimes stopping in his tracks to listen for a few minutes to some street band or smooth-voiced rapper. The sun heated up his shoulders and neck. Unlike Bill, who preferred warm weather and occasionally enjoyed ice and snow, Tom always felt good when he was out in the blazing heat, the sun warming his skin and giving it its famous golden glow.  
  
It wasn't that hot, though. The weather was only warm, but it felt good anyway. By four, he stopped in a park and ate a chocolate doughnut while listening to people talking nearby. Though he did understand most of it, the English language remained a mystery to him; as a German, he hadn’t quite mastered the art required for this fluid, smooth kind of talking. His language was more of a raw one, full of 'k's and 'r's – and he liked it that way.  
  
He only knew one person who could make the German language sound smooth and liquid, and it was Bill. In his mouth, the simplest of words became a treasure, polished and easy, and amazingly meaningful. He didn't speak English very well either, though, but Tom suspected that it was because he wasn't quite conscious of his singing – it came from his guts and he didn't control it as much as he liked to think.  
  
A musical laugh nearby startled him out of his reverie. He smiled at the young girl who was giggling on a bench nearby. She was pretty, Tom decided. Her high cheekbones were adorned with two fiery red blush patches – adorable. Had he liked girls – or had he not loved someone else so much – he'd have asked her for her number.  
  
She turned and their eyes met. He didn't have the time to look somewhere else. She caught him staring and beamed.  
  
He smiled in return. She excused herself to the friend who was sitting next to her and started walking towards him, one of her ear buds dangling on her abdomen.  
  
Tom remained in the same position, slouched on the bench, eyes half-closed because of the sun and the quiet slumber it'd put him in. He watched her approach, an amused smile playing on his lips. She must be about sixteen, he decided. She seemed nice, though, with her curly blond hair and vivid blue eyes that sparkled maliciously.  
  
As she got closer, though, he realized that she must be a fan and that the reason why she was approaching him was probably to ask for his autograph. He'd never quite got used to being famous. The thought annoyed him – he was on holiday, after all - but he decided he'd make an exception. She was really cute.  
  
“Hi,” she said when she reached the bench.  
  
“Hi,” he answered simply.  
  
“You were looking at me,” she continued.  
  
He nodded matter-of-factly. There was no point in denying it – she'd clearly seen him.  
  
“You didn't look interested, though,” she said.  
  
Well, Tom thought, she must be pretty smart. At her age, he had taken anything for a sign of romantic interest. Had Bill given him the finger, he'd probably taken it for a declaration of love.  
  
He realized that she was waiting for an answer and blushed again. God, he needed to stop doing that, he looked like a thirteen-year-old, for God's sake. “You're smart,” he answered. He didn't know what had possessed him to say that, but he didn't take it back.  
  
The girl looked nowhere near surprised. “Thank you,” she answered. “I am.”  
  
She didn't sound arrogant or full of herself, though: she knew that she was smart, plain and simple. She didn't seem to take any particular pride in it, just a quiet confidence Tom wasn't used to seeing in someone this young.  
  
“Can I sit?” she asked, pointing at the empty spot next to Tom.  
  
“Sure,” he answered. “What's your name?”  
  
“Kleo,” she answered.  
  
He waited for her to ask him for his autograph, but she didn't. “It's a beautiful name,” he said, meaning it.  
  
She smiled. A comfortable silence settled between them, and Tom took the time to take a better look at her. She was wearing jeans and a Beatles T-shirt, her hair flowing over her shoulders. Tom remarked that little braids decorated with pearls and charms were hanging in it. It made him smile.  
  
“So,” the girl spoke again after some time. “What's  _your_  name?”  
  
“Tom,” he answered simply.  
  
“What are you here for?” she asked.  
  
Tom opened his mouth to answer, then paused. It was an unusual question, to say the least. Not really the kind someone asked right after learning your name. What was he here for?  
  
“I don't know,” he answered, frowning. “It was sunny.”  
  
The girl laughed. “It still is, though it'll be over in about four hours. Is that the only reason?”  
  
Tom shrugged. “I guess so.”  
  
The silence fell back on them, warm and easy. The girl was humming a melody Tom didn't know. He smiled, almost impressed. It took a lot of skill not to be out of tune when singing while listening to an iPod. “What are you listening to?”  
  
“ _Hello Goodbye_ ,” she answered. “Wanna listen?”  
  
He took the offered ear bud and they stayed a while like this, leaning into each other so they wouldn’t lose the ear buds, Kleo sometimes humming softly along to the engaging melody.  
  
“It's nice,” Tom said when the song was over.  
  
Kleo smiled. She didn't answer but looked at him for a long moment. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable, when she suddenly spoke. “You know,” she said, with no introduction whatsoever, “not very long ago, I was in love with someone. I confessed to them and they said they loved me back. I was happy, you know how it is, right?” She turned an expectantly quirked eyebrow towards him. He nodded wordlessly. He knew.  
  
“I felt like running and crying and kicking all the dead leaves for being so  _dead_ ,” she giggled.“Anyway, I was happy. My entire face was like,  _glowing_  when they were here, and we couldn't stop from always touching and kissing and all. It even got us in trouble at school,” she confessed with a soft giggle.  
  
He giggled along – and right after felt horribly ashamed. Had he, Tom Kaulitz, really just  _giggled_? Oh, God. He was definitely not doing well.  
  
Kleo continued, unaware of Tom's confusion. “We were together for about six months, inseparable. And then it got old. You know what it's like, right? Everything is alright but you need to find something that's wrong, because you can't be happy and leave it at that. Us humans, always searching for problems.” She sighed with a grin.  
  
“And so I was unhappy, always searching for reasons to be angry at them, always digging to find something wrong between us. It got to them. We broke up. I was angry at first, you know, saying that everything was their fault, coming here.” She affectionately patted the bench. “And crying and crying and crying more tears I knew my tear ducts contained.”  
  
She paused and sighed a soft, light-hearted sigh. “Then I understood. I'm someone who always searches for problems, you know? I understood that nothing was wrong and that we'd broken up only because of my own foolishness. I also understood that they were the 'one' – I know it's a myth, but, hey, what can I say.”  
  
She paused again. “Turns out they weren't.” She made a face. “But that's not the point. I didn't realize all that straight away, of course. I took weeks, months even. I would come here every day, sit on the bench you see there.” She pointed to a bench nearby. “And cry for hours, asking myself why we'd broken up and what I had done wrong. I was so heartbroken, I didn't even go to school anymore. Cost me a few lectures.” She grinned.  
  
“But I came to understand, finally. The park helped me a great deal, though.” She smiled. “The wind, the leaves, the trees, hell, even the benches... they helped me. So I said to myself, 'to hell with the self-pity', and I went to see this person I loved, and told them I was a crazy girl who did not know love when she got hit with it right in the face. It wasn't easy, but they forgave me. Happy end, as one would say.”  
  
The silence came back, as she'd clearly finished her story.  
  
“Why did you tell this to me?” Tom asked, looking crestfallen.  
  
“Figure it out, cowboy,” she laughed. Then she stood up, beaming. “Well, all this story-telling has made me hungry as hell. Care for an ice-cream?”  
  
He stopped thinking and answered with a broad grin. “'Course. Let's go.”  
  
They chatted all the way to the ice-cream truck. He insisted on paying, and she eventually accepted. He bought two cookie-strawberry double ice-creams, feeling like a child all over again. It felt good, though. It was even making him forget his pain a little bit.  
  
Kleo was cryptic, light-spirited, a mystery and sweetness personified, all rolled up into one. Tom couldn't quite figure her out, but he didn't particularly care. She told him she liked lemons, gummy bears and musicals and disliked spinach, ‘like everyone’, and in the same breath she asked him what he thought about abortion and if he believed in God.  
  
“You have a sadness in your eyes,” she remarked as they walked through the park, carefully licking their ice-creams. They must have seemed a strange pair on the outside: a tiny teenage girl and a thug-wannabe walking side by side, chatting happily and nipping on their red-and-brown ice-creams.  
  
They talked until dusk and agreed to meet again the day after.  
  
Tom fell asleep more easily that night, remembering the pleasant sound of Kleo's voice telling her strange story. 


	3. room in tokyo

They met again at the same spot in the park, every day. Kleo didn't mention her strange story again, and Tom didn't ask. They laughed, talked about music, art, life, death, everything that came to their minds. They hugged, ate burgers at this ‘fabulous place on nineteenth’, went to see an exhibition at MoMa that he loved and she hated. They fought about useless things and complained about the rain that forced them to stay inside and sip hot chocolate at Colin's while watching  _Yes Man_.  
  
Tom felt like an adolescent boy all over again, but he didn't particularly mind. It felt good doing nothing but have fun with someone who didn't care about who he was or what he was going to do next. Kleo could be of a surprising wisdom at times, while at other times she behaved like the young teenage girl she was, all giddy and fun. He liked her.  
  
Colin questioned their strange and growing friendship, but Tom shrugged it off. It felt good, so why dwell on it? He came back to the apartment every night and every night he slept a restless sleep, unable to push away the memories of Bill his days with Kleo would keep locked up. He wondered where Bill was, what he was doing, if he was having fun, if he missed him, who he was fucking.  
  
The first time he talked to Kleo about Bill was on a rainy day. The wind was whistling around them, making their hair fly and their coats stick to their skin. They laughed as an open umbrella flew past them, and rushed to Colin's. As usual, Colin wasn't there, but at work, and they slumped on the couch, exhausted. Tom proposed that he make hot chocolate with marshmallows, and Kleo accepted happily.  
  
When he came back and didn't find Kleo in the living-room, he put the mugs on the table and went to search for his friend. It turned out she was in his room, rummaging through his stuff – she did things like that. She turned around when she heard him.  
  
“Who gave you this?” she asked, showing him the carefully folded necklace Bill had given him back. He hadn't had the heart to throw it away and had kept it carefully in a jewelry box.  
  
He didn't know what to answer. What do you answer? What do you answer to a teenage girl who asks you something like that? ‘It was my brother, when we broke up’?  
  
“Someone I love. He gave it back to me when we broke up.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but it broke at the end.  
  
He'd told Kleo that he was gay not long after they'd met, so that she wouldn't be afraid of him trying to hit on her. She hadn't minded, as he'd suspected. She was surprisingly open-minded for a teenage girl.  
  
“Really?” she asked lightly. “It's beautiful. He should've kept it.”  
  
He felt that her words meant something more than what she was saying, but he didn't dwell on it. He didn't want to. He was hurting enough as it was. “Yeah. He should've,” he said, finality obvious in his voice.  
  
But when Kleo wanted something, she wasn't one to be stopped by hinted finality – it was one of the things he liked in her. “Is that why you came here?” she continued, her fingers caressing the silver ring.  
  
Tom shook his head. “I don't know. Whatever. Come back downstairs, the chocolate's gonna be cold.”  
  
Kleo didn't move and stared at him for a moment, her extraordinary blue eyes piercing holes in his. It lasted for only a few seconds, and then, as if nothing had happened, her wide, happy smile was back on her lips and she was putting the necklace back in its former place. “You're right, let's go!”  
  
They didn't talk about Bill again. Sometimes Kleo stopped in her tracks and looked him right in the eyes for a fleeting moment, a lingering look of sadness and wonder in her electric pupils. Then it went away and she was back to her chirpy self, babbling about the newest pop band and Andy Warhol, and he was looking at her fondly, stroking her blond curls, humming.  
  
But something grew in Tom, sparked by her cryptic words and wondering looks. He knew it all too well, and here it was again, nagging: the regret and pain and Bill's angelic face, distraught from his cruel words.  


  
\------------------------

Tom did well at hiding – especially from himself. He'd bury himself in self-denial and with time, he'd grow genuinely certain that nothing was wrong. He did such a great job at denying his problems that he even came to forgot what he was trying to hide in the depths of his soul in the first place. There was only one topic about which he couldn't deny something was wrong, one topic of which the troubles resonated in his very core, and this topic was, in one word: Bill.  
  
It was something linked to the 'twin-thing', as people called it, oblivious of the profoundness of their bond. He wasn't lying when he said that he could feel everything Bill felt, that he could know when he was in pain, in love, hurting, happy. Of course he wasn't. They were in such synchronization, he was able to spot Bill in any crowd, to hear him even if he was miles away, to finish his sentences. Except when they were like this: broken up, hurt, misunderstanding.  
  
He felt as if he'd lost something. Bill had always been a part of him. He'd never left. They'd always been together for everything, all throughout school, at home, in life. Bill had frowned upon Tom's first steady girlfriend, Tom had been there when Bill had bought his first mascara and had laughed at his ecstatic giggling, they'd had their 'teenage crisis' at the same time; slamming doors, talking back, coming home late. They'd lost their virginities together, shamefully. They'd been through this roller coaster that was their life together. They'd never been apart.  
  
Oh, of course there'd been fights: little quarrels, insignificant rows and angrier, more bitter fights. Of course. Who never fought? But they'd never been apart for more than a few days. A few days, and they'd come running at each other, half angry that they weren’t able to break this almost supernatural bond, and half crazy with happiness to come back to each other. It wasn't a question of 'natural' or 'not natural'. It was  _them_.  
  
When Tom picked up the phone to call Bill for the first time since their break-up, he'd been in America for two-and-a-half weeks. He and Colin were getting on remarkably well, even if the reason for that was partly that they almost never saw each other. Kleo had continued meeting him at the usual spot, and they had spent their days together, lost between bliss and melancholy. He'd gathered a few snatches of her life, but she wouldn't tell much, and even though it was okay with him, he couldn't help but wonder what her life was like, what she felt, who were the persons she loved.  
  
It was late in the day, maybe nine, but he really wouldn't know. He'd taken a really long bath and it'd dulled everything, the time, the sensations. He felt kind of dizzy and really comfortable at once. It was strange. All the angles were suddenly very smooth, the shapes blurry, the colors paling and soft. Everything felt strangely easy – life itself was contained in a shimmering bubble of soap.  
  
He'd grabbed his mobile without really thinking about it, and dialed Bill's number out of reflex, in a daze, before realizing what he was doing and freaking out.  
  
He'd dialed the number, though, and now that it was done he seemed to be unable to hang up. It'd been such a long time since he had heard Bill's voice. He craved for it, all of a sudden; he was like a starving man, almost dying from this never-fulfilled hunger.  
  
It rang. It rang seven or eight times, before he heard something – anything.  
  
“Hi...”  
  
His heart did a painful somersault.  
  
“... you have reached Bill Kaulitz's voicemail. If I'm not answering, I must be busy – or I just hate you. Please leave me a message and a number to call you back. If this is Tom, you shouldn't be calling me and I must be waiting for you somewhere. Hurry up, lazy ass!”  
  
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He didn't get to decide, though, as a tiny giggle escaped his throat. Bill. Oh, Bill. His eyes filled up with tears, and he did nothing to stop them from rolling down on his cheeks and fill his throat. He hung up.  
  
Hearing Bill's voice had shaken something in him, at his very core. Why was it that he... what had he.... and... He couldn't coordinate his thoughts anymore.  _Bill hadn't changed his message_. He couldn't do anything else than cry hurtful, useless tears, to no end.  
  
He went to bed very late that night and tried to regulate his breath. He fell asleep before he'd succeeded completely, though. His dreams were strange and full of Bill. That was the only thing he remembered when he woke up.  
  
He talked to Kleo about that, and felt grateful when she didn't tell him how pathetic he was, and instead pressed a gentle hand against his forearm and offered to buy him a pastry. He accepted. Somehow, she managed to always be  _right_  – at the right place, at the right time. This day, he hugged her tightly, until she couldn't breathe and was forced to cry for mercy.  
  
From this day on, he called Bill every night. It became some sort of a ritual: before he got to bed, he carefully took his mobile from the nightstand and religiously dialed Bill's number. He waited for Bill's pre-taped voice to talk, and hung up just before the annoying and tempting beep rang in his ear. It didn't help him sleep better, but he couldn't keep from doing it.  
  
He knew. He knew that one day, it would be too much, that he wouldn't hang up after this infuriating, seducing beep. That he would talk. He knew exactly how it would be. His voice would be all croaky and hoarse, as if he was talking for the first time in months. He'd try and keep his voice steady, in vain. He knew it, but he kept calling, night after night, always pushing the torture further.  
  
He knew.  
  
He knew it, and it happened.  
  
The night was hard and unforgiving, red spread in splatters on the dark sky. It was chilly outside, but not really cold, and Tom wouldn't have minded going out – but Kleo was kept home by a 'family dinner', so they couldn't go out or stay at Colin’s apartment and just have a warm, tender night like they usually did. He missed her dimples and rosy cheeks. He always missed her when she wasn't here. She'd brought so much joy in his deserted heart – he'd always be thankful.  
  
Sometimes, he wondered how such little a creature could be so wise and good-hearted. Her wisdom seemed a hundred years old, and he was always amazed at the words that came out of her mouth. Everything was so  _natural_. Her gentleness was never affected or faked, but just seemed to flow right out of her; a warm, sunny halo.  
  
The sky was bleeding, this night. There was something like tears in the air, a soft, heart-wrenching sobbing sound that came from far away, that Tom couldn't help but hear. Maybe it was just him. Maybe it was him sobbing. He wouldn't know.  
  
The heating wasn't on. Tom fiddled with the heating system for a while, but gave up and resigned to making do without it. He rummaged through the cupboards until he found something to warm up his guts – a bottle of Jack Daniels. He deserved it. He'd gone through so much his head was spinning: who in his right mind would deny him a little solitary glass of liquid amber? He downed the first glass in one gulp and ended up coughing and spluttering all over Colin's Persian rug. It'd been a long time since he'd last drunk, now that he thought about it. A little glass of wine the last time he'd had dinner with Colin, a beer once in a while, and that was it. Kleo didn't drink, of course, not with him anyways (not that he would let her, he was responsible for her, after all).  
  
But he quickly got used to the burning in his throat as he downed a second glass, more slowly this time. Everything was better already. He watched, fascinated, as the amber liquid silently slid out of the glass and into his mouth. He felt like sleeping and never waking up. But that sounded too much like suicide. He got up and opened the window.  
  
The city was buzzing, sparkling, shouting in his ears. He heard a lost “I love you” that sent shivers down his spine. He heard gunshots. He heard blood and life and passion running through the city's luminous veins. He felt like crying. He didn't.  
  
And then he spotted the cell phone. There it was, on the coffee table, daunting him. Surely it was the alcohol talking, but Tom was almost certain he heard it; a tiny, shrilly voice: “Pick me!” it said, just like Alice's bottle and key. “Pick me!”  
  
It didn't feel like such a great idea, but... what could he lose? He'd already lost everything. Hands shaking, he dialed the number by heart. He heard it ring, as usual. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.  
  
“Hi, you have reached Bill Kaulitz's...” And then there was the laughing voice that always talked directly to him, this voice that went straight to his belly, kicking it with vicious strength.  
  
Beep.  
  
And then the silence.  
  
And here it was. He couldn't hang up, not anymore. He felt like he'd reached his breaking point – he just  _had_  to do it. Not because he wanted, but because he couldn't do anything else.  
  
His voice was croaky and hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken his months. He tried to keep his voice steady, in vain. It broke on the first word. “Bill...”  
  
And there was this silence, always threatening to engulf him in its warm, sticky embrace. It was  _here_ , near, menacing. Tom tried to tell himself that it was the only reason he was doing what he was doing, but he knew it wasn't. It was a multitude of somethings. It was Kleo looking at him with her big wide eyes open in wonder. It was New York, its hustle and bustle and  _emptiness_. It was this irritating ring tone, its regular, alarm-like sound in Tom's ear. The alcohol burning the back of his throat. The pain. It was everything. It was what made him open his mouth and talk, finally.  
  
He knew it would happen.  
  
And here it was.  
  
It happened.  
  
“Bill.”  
  
And then, suddenly, out of the blue, anger flared in his gut. “Why don't you fucking pick up already?”  
  
He didn't want to do this. “I've been calling you for days. I'm tired of that shit, Bill. What are you doing, anyway? Being your usual little diva? Bitching about how cruel I was to you, to some Japanese hooker? Pick up!”  
  
He didn't pick up. “Pick up! Alright, don't pick up, then. You're a bastard, you know that?”  
  
Tears, near. Right there, in his eyes, on the edge. On the brink of falling. Tears. Raging breath, because he was angry, and hurting, fuck, hurting like hell.  
  
“You don't have any right to hate me. Your hear that? No right. I'm the one who's hurting here, because you've been such an absolute  _bitch_ , you have no idea...”  
  
His voice broke again. This was going so wrong, again. The words were so easy, though, flowing right out of his mouth as his heartbeat quickened. For a second, he actually thought the pain was lessening. But he knew: it never lessened. And it never would.  
  
“I'm sorry, you know.”  
  
He wasn't angry anymore. He was sad – too sad for words.  
  
“I thought it was better for us – for you. You know it, Bill, I didn't do that to hurt you. I wouldn't. I just – I saw you, you know? I saw you every day, looking haggard and sad and tired, and I knew it was that secret that was eating you. Our secret. So I figured, you know, if I’d just try and get rid of it, maybe you'd heal and you'd be fine. Be like you were  _before_. I felt like I was responsible for this burden you were bearing. And I am. I know I am. I just – I should've known better than to push you away. You didn't deserve that. But I knew that if I told you the truth, you'd say that we'd be fine no matter what and I just – we wouldn't, you know?”  
  
He was pathetic. He'd better hang up, he said to himself. He didn't. There was a long moment of silence.  
  
“But, Bill, there's something you have to know.”  
  
He stopped holding back the tears. Nobody could see him, after all, could they?  
  
“I made a mistake. I'm sorry for that.”  
  
The city became a blurry mess. The lights looked like lighthouses in an ocean of tears.  
  
“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking.  
  
And then, barely more than a whisper, “I'll always love you.”  
  


\------------------------

  
**Tokyo, 4:03 am.**  
  
He'd come back from the onsen about two hours before, and it'd been the first thing he'd seen. A little flashing light on his mobile, and the inscription he hadn't dared hope for, fearing he wanted it too much: 1 message.  
  
1 message.  
  
And he knew who it was. It just couldn't be anyone else – it couldn't.  
  
He went to delete it, but he couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't want to: his finger just wouldn't press the decisive button. But it was just curiosity, now, wasn’t it? A man is curious by nature. It wasn't anything else. Just. Curiosity.  
  
His finger was trembling when it hit the button. Bill slowly put the phone to his ear and Tom's voice burst from the speaker; angry, bitter.  
  
“Bill. Bill. Fucking pick up already !”  
  
He sounded like he was drunk, and Bill sighed. He should've known better. This was Tom, after all. He must be partying like crazy at wherever-he-was, sleeping around... he was just calling to torture him, now, was he? Yeah. That must be it. His apologies had been bullshit, he'd known all along. And this tiny flicker of hope – well, he was just foolish and heartbroken, it wasn't his fault.  
  
He went to delete the message, but something held him back. He probably had masochistic instincts, Bill decided as he clutched the phone harder, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. He tried to ignore what Tom was saying, but every word was like a thorn in his gut, hard and painful.  
  
And then he was apologizing, too much, explaining, and everything made sense but, strangely, he didn't stop hurting. It was still a lie. Tom was angry and sad and his voice oozed desperation and sorrow.  
  
It stopped eventually, though. Bill was ready to hang up when he heard something, words, barely more than a whisper.  
  
It was Tom. He was saying, “I love you.”  
  


\------------------------

Tom woke up to the awful feeling of having had his head crushed under a gigantic hammer. Boy, he'd drunk enough for at least ten years, he thought. He could hear Colin whistling in the kitchen, and the appealing smell of pancakes drew a grumble from his belly. He hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. He was never hungry at night, and Kleo hadn’t been there to force him to eat.  
  
He greeted Colin in the kitchen with an unconvinced, “Hey, man.”  
  
Colin shook his head with a sorry smile. “You look like  _hell_ , man.”  
  
“Thanks,” Tom grumbled.  
  
“Pancake?”  
  
Tom nodded. Colin gave him a plate on which rested two golden, wonderfully-smelling pancakes topped with syrup.  
  
He smiled at Tom's eagerness as Tom stuffed one of the pancakes in his mouth with a muffled, “Thank you.”  
  
Colin shook his head in faux-disbelief. “Want some orange juice to down that, bro?” he asked.  
  
Tom nodded gratefully.  
  
They talked for most of the morning, Colin having one of his rare weekends off (he worked as a music producer at Sony, meaning a crazy schedule and lots of work) and Kleo not having called yet. Despite Tom's apprehensions, it went pretty well. Talking with Colin was easy, if not relaxing. He wasn't asking for anything, just chatting about things, nothing really serious. Nothing heavy. It was good.  
  
The warm sun was leaking through the windowpanes and a cool breeze was blowing. The morning passed quickly, they ate a light lunch, they laughed, they got to know each other. Colin wasn't really the kind of guy Tom would ever have a deep, meaningful friendship with, but they got along pretty well. He felt as if he was forgetting something – but then, he didn't really want to remember.  
  
Kleo called him in early evening. He smiled as soon as he heard her voice.  
  
“Hi, Kle,” he said.  
  
“Hi,” she answered, something like laughter laced in her voice. There was a pause before she talked again. It wasn't awkward; he could hear her breathing, it was enough. It was a silent conversation, everything they didn't say.  
  
She talked. “Do you know what that means?” she asked.  
  
“What?” he answered, confused.  
  
“What you named me. 'Kle'.”  
  
Tom furrowed his brow. “Um... nothing?”  
  
“I told you about this French class I was taking, right?” she suddenly asked.  
  
“Yeah, you did. Though I don't see what that's got to do with this 'kle' business.”  
  
“Did you ever learn French?”  
  
He decided not to try to understand. He didn't mind that much. He was fine with her just being  _her_. “I did. It was a long time ago, though. Bill was a killer at it,” he said, his heart clenching, not really knowing why he was telling her that. “He lost all of it, though. Pity,” he mumbled.  
  
She didn't answer for a long time. He thought she'd hung up, but then she continued. “There's a word, in French, that's pronounced 'kle' too. It’s spelled ‘c-l-e’. It's a nice word, don't you think?”  
  
Tom smiled as he grabbed a surviving pancake from the bar. “I guess it is. What does it mean?”  
  
There was a pause, then: “Key. It means key.”  
  
Something clicked in place in Tom's chest, and Kleo was back to her usual chirpy, chatty self. “See you in ten at the usual spot, then?” she asked brightly.  
  
“Okay,” he answered flatly. He hung up and smiled at the sunrise. Something was happening today, he knew it. And unlike so many other days before, it was actually something good.  
  
He got dressed, humming a cheesy tune.  
  


\------------------------

Despite his good feeling, nothing really changed in the little routine he'd established in his life. A week passed, in which some days were good and others were unbearable, as usual. He tried not to think about his drunk message on Bill's voicemail and the consequences it might have on their already rocky relationship. Instead, he settled on hoping fervently that he'd deleted it without listening it through.  
  
On Saturday morning, as he got up and sleepily dragged his feet to the kitchen, he spotted a glass of orange juice and a tall white envelope leaning cleanly against the glass with a post-it on it. He picked it up. The post-it said: 'You've got mail. Have a good day, man!' He smiled at Colin's kindness.  
  
He rubbed his eyes and curiously studied the envelope. You never knew, after all – there were some serious psychos out there, that was for sure. His breath caught in his throat when he recognized Bill's handwriting. It couldn't – it wasn't – could it possibly...  
  
He opened it with shaky hands and swore when he cut himself. Fuck. He hated paper cuts. He sucked on his finger and fumbled with his left hand to retrieve the letter. Only it wasn't a letter. It wasn't even a note.  
  
It was a card. A simple black and white, obviously chic card that read:  
  
Hilton – Tokyo  
6-2 Nishi-Shinjuku 6-chome  
Shinjuku-ku  
Japan 1600023  
  
Heart beating fast, he flipped it to see if there was anything written on the other side. There was something. Only one solitary, scribbled number.  
  
83  
  
His heart exploded.  
  


\------------------------

He hadn't even  _thought_  about it. He hadn't even had to ask himself if he wanted to go. He  _had_  to go. He needed it like air – though surely he could live without air. No sooner had he read the card than he was stumbling for his computer, desperately fumbling on the room's desk to find the fucking battery, and booking himself the first flight to Japan, the next morning. He just had something to do first. Someone to see.  
  
He didn't have much trouble packing, as he had merely opened his suitcase to be able to retrieve the items he needed when he needed them. He didn't want to feel at home. This wasn't his home. His home was elsewhere. His home was in Bill's arms.  
  
He felt a little pained to have to announce his departure to Colin, as they were barely starting to get to know each other, but he did nonetheless. Curiously, Colin seemed to understand, and there was a strange wisdom in his gaze when he bid Tom farewell. They would not see each other the next day, as Colin took off to work before Tom was even awake, and Tom was leaving around midday.  
  
After Tom had finished packing, he left the apartment to have a quick walk in town. It felt strange seeing it with new eyes, not a newcomer's, but the eyes of someone who was leaving. Everything seemed brighter, more intense, truer in some way. He felt sad leaving. He'd forged memories in this town, with it. He'd miss it. But not as much as he missed Bill.  
  
He treated himself to a strawberry-cookie ice-cream and wandered around the park by himself, humming a soft melody. People cast him curious looks as he walked, eyes half-closed, trying to avoid the dead leaves. There was some of his usual confident swagger back in his walk, he noticed.  
  
He needed to cool off. Surely it wasn't a good idea to get ahead of himself. After all, he didn't know what Bill wanted to tell him. Maybe he just wanted to torture him some more, or to tell him to stop bothering him for good, who knew?  
  
Butterflies were flying around his belly.  
  
He spent the afternoon being strangely happy; a warm, cozy happiness that filled his chest with flying kites and made him feel giddy and light.  
  


\------------------------

When he told her he was leaving, Kleo did nothing but smile at him, her usual smile, wide and happy and full of a wisdom that was way past her age. “See you then,” she said quietly, rising on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek.  
  
There was a silence.  
  
“Thank you,” Tom said. He didn't elaborate, but he knew she knew everything these little words meant.  
  
She winked at him. “For what?” she asked. Her chirpy comeback made him think of Gustav.  
  
He silently thanked the universe for bringing such amazing people into his life.  
  
“Will you accompany me to the airport?” he asked, already knowing the answer.  
  
As usual, though, she surprised him.  
  
“No,” she answered simply.  
  
He waited for her to elaborate, then, when it became clear she wasn't going to, he frowned. “Care to elaborate?”  
  
She shrugged with a small smile. “Sure.” A pause. “It's something you need to do by yourself, Tom. You have plenty of things to figure out, and having me by your side while you're heading for a flight you're taking to join your estranged lover certainly won't help.” She smiled sweetly. “Thanks for the offer, though.”  
  
Tom frowned deeper, but didn't deny it.  
  
A warm silence settled between them, that lasted until Kleo hit him playfully in the shoulder. “You should go,” she all but whispered. “Or you'll miss your flight.” She smiled. “And we wouldn't want that, would we?”  
  
When he answered, a little bit of sadness tainted Tom's smile. “We wouldn't,” he murmured.  
  
They parted ways without any further words, as Tom was worried that he might cry, which wouldn't be very manly. He took a few tentative steps before turning around. He immediately spotted Kleo's figure, tall and confident, her long blond hair falling on her shoulders. He watched her stop to pick a lone flower from under a nearby bench.  
  
“Kleo!” he all but shouted.  
  
She turned around, adorning a sad little smile. She didn't seem to intend to walk back to him, but instead put her hands in a cone shape around her mouth to answer. “What?”  
  
“I love you!”  
  
A few passer-by’s stopped in their tracks at the confession and enveloped Kleo and Tom with warm, tender looks as others shared secretive smiles.  
  
Tom didn't pay attention to them, instead focusing on Kleo's reaction.  
  
She beamed. It seemed to light up the whole park, which was starting to disappear in the night's warm obscurity. Tom almost blinked. Her smile was blinding, truthful, sincere, the most amazing one he'd ever seen. A real smile.  
  
“I know,” she answered. It was lower than a shout, but he heard her nonetheless. She smiled again before putting the flower in her hair and taking to her heels to continue her walk home. “See you, Tom,” she said, a sparkle in her eyes.  
  
“See you,” he answered dully, unable to keep her from leaving but equally unable to leave himself.  
  
He watched her until she was out of sight and even then stayed in the park until the night had fully settled, leaving him half-asleep on a bench. He was awoken by the buzzing of his mobile in his pocket. He retrieved it with a small groan, only to discover that he had received a text message. He checked the sender:  _Kleo_ , the silver screen said. He opened the text, curious.  
  
A single word was lighting up the screen.  **Ditto : )**  
  
In his chest, someone released a thousand balloons.  
  


\------------------------

He got on the flight the next day at noon, nervous and excited at the same time. He settled on his seat, readying himself for the fourteen hours he'd have to endure. He felt dizzy, his mouth was dry, his palms were sweaty. He didn't sleep.  
  
When he spotted the lights of Tokyo outside his window, he took a sharp intake of breath.  
  
Here he was.  
  
Tokyo.  
  
The reunion.  



End file.
